


i know it ain't easy, giving up your heart

by halfabreath



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon Typical Alcohol Consumption, M/M, Vomit Mention, brief holster/esther shapiro, lorge emotions for lorge bois, post-coital emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2021-01-01 20:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21149444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfabreath/pseuds/halfabreath
Summary: The truth is - Holster is all sharp edges. He’s loud, and rough, and clumsy, and reckless, but only with himself. So when Ransom kisses him, he’s so gentle Holster thinks he must be confused.Ransom kisses him, after. He kisses Holster while he’s still inside him, lips so, so gentle as he sweeps his hands up and down Holster’s sides.





	i know it ain't easy, giving up your heart

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: Holsom + after sex kisses
> 
> *ben wyatt voice*: it's the tenderness
> 
> come hang out at halfabreath.tumblr.com
> 
> title from Adele's "One and Only"

The truth is - 

Holster’s fucked people he’s loved, but he’s never fucked someone who loved him back. It sounds worse than it is. Holster’s the one running around falling in love left and right. It’s a part of him, written into his muscles and healed into his scars and simmering under his skin. He’s never been able to keep sex and love from tangling together, the thin threads biting into his skin as he picks at the tiny knots with his big, clumsy hands. 

The truth is - Holster is all sharp edges. He’s loud, and rough, and clumsy, and reckless, but only with himself. 

When Ransom kisses him, he’s so gentle Holster thinks he must be confused. Holster doesn’t get kissed like _this_, not ever. He knows he should pull away, make a joke, remind Ransom who he’s actually dealing with like he had the last time they kissed (Freshman Year Ransom had been all tongue and Holster had been all teeth and whatever wasn’t tongue and teeth was made up of bottom shelf tequila. _Ransom_, Holster had said, wiping the excess spit off his lips with his sweatshirt sleeve. _Rans, it’s me._ Ransom had looked up, blinked, and they somehow burst into laughter at the exact same glorious moment. _Holy fuck,_ Ransom said through honest-to-God giggles. _Holtzy, it’s you!_ Holster laughed so hard he threw up and that made Ransom laugh so hard he almost threw up and Holster’s last memory of that night is chugging half a Gatorade before handing it off to Ransom and falling asleep curled up together on the green couch.)

Senior Year Ransom isn’t all tongue. He’s soft kisses, smooth and silky against Holster’s face and neck and chest and stomach and thighs and ass. He’s cool fingers trying to warm up lube despite his terrible circulation. He’s breathless laughter fanning over Holster’s cheeks, his neck, his chin. He’s wide eyes and a scrunched nose and lips that drink down Holster’s moans like sweet, fresh water. 

Ransom kisses him, after. He kisses Holster while he’s still inside him, lips so, so gentle as he sweeps his hands up and down Holster’s sides. Ransom’s palms press into his hips, thumbs settling into grooves of muscle and bone. Ransom tucks his face against Holster’s neck, just like he does every time they crowd into the bottom bunk when the ghosts are acting up, and accidentally presses in deeper. It’s too much too soon after Holster’s orgasm but he doesn’t care. Everything’s a little too hot, a little too bright, a little too much. Ransom’s burned into his skin, his bones, a silvery glow beneath his eyelids that shines straight through the darkness. Holster’s staring into the sun. His come is still warm on his stomach, hips still tilted up, chest still heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Ransom kisses him as he pulls back, drinks in Holster’s low, broken groan when he slowly pushes back in.

The truth is - Holster’s known a lot about what Ransom likes in bed long before he even considered what it would be like to be in that bed himself. They’ve shared countless deets over the years. He knows all about how Ransom feels about lace, and how having his hips kissed and how he can finger someone for_ever_ without getting bored. But he didn’t know what Ransom’s face would look like when he came, or how he’d sound, or how he’d curl into Holster right before and whisper _Fuck, Holtzy, I’m - Holster, please, just - you’re so - fuck, Adam. _Holster knew Ransom liked to linger after he comes, how he liked to press close and deep but he never thought Ransom would call him _Adam_ and he never thought it would make _him_ press his knees into Ransom’s sides, dig his nails in, throw his head back, twist his hips and come. 

“Rans,” Holster mumbles, the precious syllable muffled by Ransom’s lips. He knows Ransom’s body almost as well as he knows his own, on and off the ice, but he’s never known him like _this_, with his hands framing Ransom’s gorgeous face, thumbs brushing along his sharp cheekbones with his thighs tucked up around his ribs. 

Ransom drops his head against Holster’s shoulder and grinds in deep. Holster’s body arches before he can process anything other than the perfect _painpleasure_ from the blunt head of Ransom’s cock pressing against his prostate. Ransom groans, mumbles his name. His hands sweep up Holster’s sides to grasp his twisting hips and hold him in place. When Holster opens his eyes, all he can see is the deep, deep ochre of Ransom’s skin. All he can smell is Ransom’s sweat and cum and lube and the detergent they bought almost year ago and somehow haven’t stopped using yet. When he breathes in the air is heavy and hot. Their skin sticks together when Ransom slowly pulls out, pushes back in, pulls out, pushes back in, pulls, pushes, pulls. 

Holster’s never really liked this before - the whole close sex thing. Maybe because no one’s wanted it - wanted _him_ \- like that. He tried it a few times, with Esther, but having his entire body weight pressing down on her made her claustrophobic. _I like you, Adam,_ She’d said, chin propped up on his chest. _There’s just an awful lot of you._ She’d pinched his nipple to make him laugh then swept her fingertips up his neck and tapped on his chin until his smile showed all his teeth. (_I like you,_ She’d said when they broke up. _You’re just - you’re a lot. You and your friends.)_ They tried it the other way, after she started topping, but neither of them knew where to position his legs or how to hold him in place so more often than not he ended up on his hands and knees, face pressed into the pillow to muffle his moans. 

The truth is - Holster’s a lot. Most people can only take so much, and he usually couldn’t give a single, solitary fuck about what they think of him. He’ll laugh as loudly as he wants in the library and sing under his breath in the weight room to control his breathing. The glances and glares roll off his shoulders; he hardly registers them at all these days. But when he’s _with_ someone, when he gets to hold them, and kiss them, and make them feel good, Holster doesn’t want to be too much. He wants to be just enough, to fit into their hollowed out parts perfectly. 

But there’s an awful lot of him. Holster’s dropped parts of himself on too many bedroom floors, piled underneath his shirts and jeans and socks. He whittles those sharp edges of himself down until he _fits_, until he’s just right. So he keeps his distance, only ducking in to kiss them when they want him close or pressing them into the sheets instead of asking to be pressed down himself or fucking them up against a wall because he’s strong enough to do it. That’s why they’re with him, aren’t they? For easy kisses, for strong hands, for stupid jokes after he holds them however they want to be held. Holster knows not to ask for too much, not anymore. (Not after Juniors and draft day and the endless hours of hoping that somehow his name would be called when everyone told him it wouldn’t be. They were right.) So Holster doesn’t ask, and it’s not like it matters. Getting other people off gets Holster off, it always has, so he makes them come as many times as they want before finishing and then he’s dressed and out the door before they have to ask him to leave.

The truth is - no one’s ever held him like Ransom does. His cool fingertips sweep over Holster’s inner thigh and behind his calf before suddenly pushing one leg back until Holster’s knee is pressed against his chest and the stretch burns but Holster digs his short nails into Ransom’s back and pulls him closer, closer, closer.

Ransom is kind, and gentle, and sweet, and brilliant, and he says things like _You’re so good,_ and _I’ve got you, just breathe,_ and _I think I’ve wanted this since freshman year when we fell asleep on the couch with you in Faber and I woke up hard but you didn’t call me out on it and all I wanted to do was kiss you but I wasn’t brave enough _and _Come on, Holtzy, I can’t hear you _and _That’s it, you’re so good, you’re so good. _He says_,_ _Sorry, baby_ when he finally pulls out and smooths his fingertips over Holster’s brow when he winces and kisses him until the feeling of _emptyemptyempty_ is gone. Holster’s sticky with lube and spit and _Ransom_ and all he can think about is those four soft syllables that fell onto his cheeks and chin like the final raindrops of a spring thunderstorm.

_Sorry, baby_.

The sky is clearing. 

_Sorry, baby._

Ransom tips to the side, rolls onto his back. He settles into Holster’s bed like he belongs there, one hand tucked behind his head, the other sweeping up and down Holster’s thigh. There isn’t enough room on the bed for them both to comfortably lay on their backs, Holster knows that from experience, so he twists to settle on his side. He curls up and shifts back to give Ransom room to breathe (_I like you, there’s just an awful lot of you_) until he’s almost teetering off the edge of the mattress and for a moment he swears he’s back in his little bed in his billet house in Iowa. He was too big for that bed and house and team and Holster doesn’t know what he’ll do if he’s too big for this, too. 

The truth is - Holster doesn’t deserve this. "You’re quiet,“ Ransom murmurs. His eyes are still closed. When he reaches out for Holster his hand falls on the mattress between them. His thick eyebrows furrow and then he’s looking over at Holster with those gorgeous, expressive eyes and Holster knows Ransom’s analyzing him like one of his beloved biology journals. He can feel Ransom breaking him down into manageable data points but it’s not a bad feeling. It’s new, but it’s not bad. 

The truth is - it feels like Ransom’s the first person to ever really see him. Everyone hears him, because he’s so loud they can’t ignore him, but people don’t _see_. 

"I’m never quiet.” Holster jokes, but it’s not really a joke at all. Ransom’s hand drifts into his vision. It’s an awkward angle but the way Ransom’s knuckles brush over his cheek makes something in Holster’s chest start doing backflips. Holster tilts his head to lean into the touch before he can help it. 

“You are now.” Ransom says as he sweeps his fingertips back up Holster’s cheek, thumb smoothing down his eyebrow before cradling his jaw. Holster knows he’s supposed to say something now. But Ransom is right; he is quiet.

Silence drapes over them, chasing the blanket Ransom tugs over their hips and legs. 

The truth is - Holster wants to say _I love you_, but he knows it’ll be too much too soon, and there’s already so much working against him he can’t risk it. Holster keeps his mouth shut because he knows if he opens it he’ll scare Ransom away.

Ransom’s gaze snaps away for a half of a half of a second. 

It’s tiny. Almost imperceptible. But Holster knows the attic, so he knows Ransom just looked at the door. Holster knows Ransom, so he knows he’s feeling anxious. Holster knows Ransom’s anxiety, so he knows he always searches for the exits right before he’s about to panic. Holster knows Ransom’s panic, so he knows he goes quiet and still instead of loud and frantic. Holster knows himself, so he knows he won’t let that happen. 

The truth is - Holster doesn’t even have to think about it. Not even a little bit. He’s across the mattress in half a second flat. The blankets tangle up around their legs as Holster pulls himself on top of Ransom, crowding in as close as he can. He kisses Ransom hard, again and again. When he pulls back he doesn’t go far. He puts just enough space between their noses for Ransom to see his eyes when he says _I love you, I think I’ve always loved you_. He lets Ransom pull him this way and that, angling his chin until their lips slot together perfectly. He whines against Ransom’s lips, holds him a little too tight. _Pull my hair?_ He asks, cheek to cheek with Ransom as he fights to catch his breath. _Hold me tighter? Will you kiss my throat? Can you - more, Rans, I want more. I want, I want, I want. _He asks for everything he can think of. He breaks all of his rules, one by one, until he’s asked for everything he wants and presses so close he swears he’s tasting himself on Ransom’s lips and tells Ransom he loves him as many times as he can. 

“Holtzy,” Ransom gasps, long neck tilting back in an elegant column of muscle and sinew. Holster kisses up and down the delicate cartilage. Ransom must know the names of every little dip and ridge beneath his lips. 

“One more, just - ” Holster mumbles into Ransom’s skin, scraping his teeth along his jaw before finally returning to his full lips. He kisses Ransom once, twice, before Ransom tips his head to the side. 

“We have time.” The words sound so sure coming from Ransom’s mouth. Warm, too. Coals that have been burning for hours but have hours to go before they grow cold.

"We do?” Holster asks, and he hates how thick his voice is. Ransom smiles up at him, all warmth and love and a little bit of _Really, Adam?_

“Holster.” Ransom says, taking Holster’s face between his hands. He likes doing that, Holster notices. He didn’t know Ransom liked that. “If you love me, doesn’t it makes sense that I love you, too?”

And the truth is - it does make sense. 

Holster reaches for his file, his knife, his tools. He finds his sharpest edges, fingertips pricked and bleeding as he fumbles for them in the darkness. He presses the blade to his skin, ready to carve away whatever pieces don’t fit in Ransom but before he can draw blood he shifts and - 

There’s room. 

It’s not a perfect fit, but there’s room for him between Ransom’s ribs. 

The truth is - there’s room to grow. There’s an awful lot of Holster, but there’s an awful lot of Ransom, too, and when Holster stretches out (just a little, he knows not to be greedy, knows to be careful) Ransom stretches with him. Holster realizes that if he rolls over, the only items on the attic floor will be their clothes and his textbooks and Ransom’s sweatshirts and the milk jug he fills with water to stay hydrated.

“We have time,” Holster echoes. Ransom smiles, bright and iridescent and it burns a little but Holster doesn’t look away.

“One more,” Ransom says, gaze flickering between Holster’s eyes and his lips. Holster laughs, sudden and bold and far too loud. Ransom presses their smiles together in a soft - well, it’s not technically a kiss, because it’s really just their teeth bumping together as they laugh into each other’s mouths. Ransom’s big hands frame Holster’s face.

The truth is - Holster could do this forever.   
  
The truth is - he probably will. 


End file.
